


Creatures

by Aryas_aria



Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, a game of thrones - Fandom
Genre: A little Jonerys, Book Spoilers, F/M, Show Spoliers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22411291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: Arya arrives at Winterfell in the midst of the War for the Dawn, but she has more than one battle to fight
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612894
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	Creatures

“All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel. […] There’s escaping from the wolves, fighting the wolves, capturing the wolves, taming the wolves. Being thrown to the wolves, or throwing others to the wolves so the wolves will eat them instead of you. Running with the wolf pack. Turning into a wolf. Best of all, turning into the head wolf. No other decent stories exist.” – Margaret Atwood

***

She is going to die. And that, in and of itself, is not so bad really. She’s used to pain now, and the cold, it…it would be nothing. But to have come _so_ far, to be _so_ close. It’s Father’s death all over, Robb and Mother at the Twins _again_. She’s crossed the Narrow Sea, and finally she is in Winterfell again, home. Even beautiful Nymeria is by her side once more, leading wolves into the battle as well. But there is a war happening, _again_. There is death and blood and loss, _again_. And she’s so, so incredibly close but still not close enough. She doesn’t know how to handle this feeling of being too late _again_. She fights, of course, for as long as she draws breathe, she will strike down the ones that don’t. **B** ut…

But where are Bran and Summer, Rickon and Shaggy, even Sansa?

Where is Ghost?

Where is Jon?

_Jon._

Even now, hacking at wights and fighting, always fighting, she sees his face. The boy she remembers smiles at her in her mind, grey eyes so sad and longing. It breaks her heart. She has wanted to see him again for so long, to wrap her arms around his and be safe, to feel something again. _Oh, Jon. Where are you?_

The tales she heard up the Kings road speak of Bran’s strange powers and Rickon’s feral ways and Sansa’s keen wiles. And if the fisherwomen and village folk are to be believed, Jon is no bastard at all, but the true heir to the Iron Throne, set to wed Daenerys Targaryen, his aunt of all people, and has claimed one of her dragons. It seems she’s too late for him in more ways than one. Still, if she can just see their faces one more time before her eyes shut forever, she will count herself lucky.

And the old gods must hear her prayers, even in the midst of such slaughter, because they guide her feet to the Godswood. Every branch and root and pool is so familiar that it makes her ache to take that path one last time. She feels the sob leave her body in a throb of pain as she sees Theon Greyjoy of all people guarding her little brother. _Bran._ She hears a dragon’s screech and the earth rumbles, but it barely even registers to her. Bran and Summer are at the base of the weirwood, still as statues, and eyes transfixed on Nymeria and her. She knows Theon says something, offers some apology or another, but she doesn’t stop, cannot stop until she holds Bran in her arms.

“Arya,” he smiles despite everything, smiles at her in that sweet way that is all his own. “I knew you’d come.”

“I had to see you, one last time. Oh Bran, let me take you somewhere, get you to safety. The crypts—“

“My place is here, as is yours,” he cuts her off firmly but not unkindly. He hands her a beautiful dagger, Valyrian steel on one end and obsidian on the other. “Take it. It belongs to you.”

She doesn’t question it, not when there is such buttery happening all around them. Not when he has tasked her with protecting him. And she will protect him. She may not get to see Rickon and Sansa or even Jon, but she will protect Bran. “Bran,” she whispers, kissing both his cheeks and cupping his face in her hands. “I won’t let them hurt you. I promise,” her eyes harden and whatever Bran finds there makes him smile again.

“I know you won’t. I know _you_.” He says it in a way that makes her feel exposed, but she cannot think of it now.

“Bran. Promise me you’ll tell them—“

“You can tell them yourself,” he interrupts her again, still as willful as she remembers, the boy who continued to climb even when Mother told him not to. And he must have powers, to read her mind so, to tell her that she must be the one to climb now. “Up you go,” he says as she takes uncertain hands to the tree bark, not wanting to hide. “And remember, quiet as a shadow.” She won’t fight him, not when there’s so little time left. Not when the Godswood has grown colder than before even and she can feel the stutters of Theon and his Iron born’s hearts all around them. She gives her little brother one final look, absorbing the way his blue eyes look just now in the moon’s light and the way his red hair makes him look on fire, then slinks behind the red leaves of the weirwood tree.

 _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords. The man who fears losing has already lost._ She watches as Nymeria and Summer dissolve into the shadows themselves, and she will not be afraid if they aren’t. It’s such a comforting thought, to be one among beasts, to find joy in the wildness that would terrify most men, to run with the wolf pack.

She watches the Night King and his White Walkers enter the Godswood on silent steps. These unnatural creatures with eyes too blue and made of ice, they might terrify her were she anyone else. But she is a Stark of _Winterfell_ , and they are threatening Bran, keeping her from Jon. They may be ancient and powerful and terrible, but she has always known winter was coming, she has always been one with the rage and fury and harshness that is her in her bones. _Monster,_ she thinks as she looks at the Night King in all his terrible glory: armor made of ice, skin as pale as milk, and a weightiness to him that is positively ancient. _Monster_ , she thinks again, _and so am I_.

She hears Theon dying with her own ears, but sees it through Nymeria’s eyes as her wolf prowls around the in the shadows, and knows his debt is paid. _Wait_ , Summer seems to tell his sister, _patience_. On instinct, Arya herself does not move, not when a dozen White Walkers make to encircle them, not even when she can feel the dreadful taste of them through Nymeria’s mouth as both wolves burst from the darkness in sync. They distract the two walkers closest to the king as more of Nymeria’s wolves pour into the Godswood to join the fight. And… a blur of white goes past so fast she almost misses it, comes to protect Nymeria’s back as a walker thinks to sneak up on her from behind. Ghost! The happiness all but lodges in her throat though as she turns back to her brother’s chair. The Night King towers over Bran for a long moment, seemingly unaffected by the chaos behind him, not once sensing her presence. It is his mistake, his downfall, and she smiles in the face of it.

It all happens slowly after that, so slow she cannot even feel her heart beating in her chest. Bran meets the creature’s eyes, unafraid and unwavering, so confident that she will save him, that she will not fail. The king tilts his head at this a little, almost as if in confusion. He makes to unsheathe his sword, but he never gets the chance. Swift as a deer, she is upon him at once. And then she feels his icy grip around her neck as he catches her, sees the slight amusement on his face as he thinks to toss her aside. But he notices the drop of her dagger too late, barely gets to register the way she has flipped it and caught it in her other hand before it is plunged into his belly so deep she can feel the pale blue blood oozing onto her fingers as she shatters his milkglass bones.

All at once she is on the ground, bursts of ice exploding all around her as the undead become nothing but a child’s story for true. She looks to Bran and smiles at him before exhaustion takes over and she collapses.

***

Bran knows when she slips into Nymeria’s skin. She suspects Jon and Rickon do too, but only Bran gives the wolf a knowing look and rub on the head whenever she does it. It’s not that she isn’t trying to get better, because she is. She’s tired of everyone fretting over her and demanding she stay in bed. She just wants freedom, and to be able to run and train and prepare because the fighting is still not done it seems.

Jon tries to soothe these longings in her, but creates a different kind of hurt when he visits.

At first it had been so sweet to see him, waking to find that face that she has dreamed about for years in front of her, smiling at her, mussing her hair. She had traced every scar a dozen times before she even let him leave the room, but it had still not been enough. It had never been enough, she realized sadly, at the time when she could have him with no shame and when he was exactly the furthest from her.

Daenerys Targaryen had burst in on the happy scene, bright purple eyes genuinely happy that Jon’s little sister is well. It had made Arya sick, the way her stomach had turned when she saw that girl look at Jon, the same way she knows _she_ must look at Jon. It makes her want to run away as soon as she can. And she thought she was done with running, done with fighting, but that will never be the case.

That is also why she finds it easier to slip into Nymeria’s skin these days. Or at least, it was. But Nymeria, her traitorous wolf is mated now, to Ghost. It complicates things, for when she slips into the wolfs skin, the need to be by her mate’s side is strong and it will not be denied. And so Jon is always with her, even when he isn’t, and what will she do when he stays in Kings Landing and she must stay here in Winterfell to keep from drowning in sorrow?

She’ll set Nymeria free. She will let her follow Ghost if that is what she wants, or perhaps they will return to what is left of her pack, or maybe even go beyond the Wall, into the true lands of winter. She won’t let Nymeria feel trapped, nor will she let herself.

“What are you thinking?” Jon asks her, sweeping through the doorway to set a tray down beside her. He’s talking to her, but looking at Nymeria and so she returns to her own body quickly, although a bit annoyed.

“I wanted to go outside. I was just about to see if Nym would want to when you came in,” she answers, her tone short.

“Sam says that your strength is returning, perhaps in a week or two—“

“in a week or two you’ll be gone,” she says vehemently, angrier than she wanted, “why should you care what I can do in a week or two?”

For a moment he stares at her, shocked. This sort of anger was always reserved for Sansa in their youth, and occasionally Bran or Robb if they truly displeased her, but never Jon. She can tell he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. “I will always care what happens to you, little sister. I always have,” he answers sincerely, tenderly.

It makes her angry for some reason and Nym growls to highlight her next words. “I’m _not_ your little sister. I’m your cousin. And you needn’t concern yourself with me, your grace. You have a kingdom to win,” she doesn’t say _without me_ , but he hears it just the same.

“Arya,” he groans. “You killed the Night King! You saved everyone! Surely you can let one battle go by without fighting, without sacrificing yourself? Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

“Of course I am!” She doesn’t like how angry she sounds, how hurt. “It’s all I’ve done since I left. Fight to live, fight to survive, fight to get back to _you_! And now you want to leave _again_. Jon did—did you learn _nothing_ last time? If you leave—“ a sob escapes her as she realizes that this might be the only time she gets with him.

“Arya,” he sighs, moving to hold her in his arms and pet her hair. “I will always come back to you. Do you remember what I told you the day I left for the wall?”

She nods into his shirt. “Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle,” she whispers quietly, tears spilling onto his shirt as she thinks just how long and hard both of their roads have been to lead them to this moment. “Jon I don’t want to be on different roads, not anymore. Please don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“There will always be a place for you by my side, little si—Arya.”

“Daenerys has a place by your side,” she says, more bitter than she meant to. “Not me.”

“ _You_ have a place by my side,” he grips her shoulders before taking a hand to direct her chin. He looks into her eyes. “You have a place _here_ ,” he takes his other hand to rest it over his heart. “Do you think that could ever change? No matter what happens, you are my heart.”

It’s too much, what he says and what he does not say, what he _cannot_ say if he does not want to unleash chaos. And yet….

She has spent so long trying to get here, to get to him. How can she just let him slip away again? She and Jon are bound, just as Ghost and Nymeria. One mind in two bodies, two hearts that beat to the same unnatural rhythm. She was always meant to love him like this, same as she was always meant to share Nymeria’s skin. She realizes she has been foolish. She can no more let Jon go than she can Nymeria.

Wherever they go, she will come. It might tear her heart in two, but they will mend it, her wolf and her man. She reaches one of her own hands to place atop Jon’s, where he is still clutching his heart. “I love you,” she admits, earnestly. “I love you will all that I am and all that I was and I all that I ever will be.”

“And I love you,” he answers, a tear escaping his eyes because it is _impossible_.

“But we cannot be, not in this life,” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, drawing her courage.

“Perhaps….perhaps there is a way,” he counters. “Sometimes I share Ghost’s skin when he…the Free Folk call it an abomination, in truth.”

“What is one more sin among so many already?” She answers tiredly. She hates it, but this is the only way she can still be with Jon, the only way she will not repeat the mistakes of the past while still catching happiness for herself. She sees her life as it will be now. She will marry some lord, one that Jon will insist is important and needed and must always be kept close. She will give him sons and daughters and they will live in King’s Landing, in the splendor of the capital, growing up among Jon and Daenerys’ own heirs. She will see Jon, but she will never touch him. But Nymeria will be with Ghost, and together they will run through the pitiful Godswood of King’s Landing, and hunt in the Kingswood and sleep among the stars and howl to the moon and swim in the Blackwater to escape the heat of the city. She will never touch Jon, but Nymeria will nuzzle into Ghost’s mane, will bear her neck to him and relish in the way he nips her ear every morning. She will never touch Jon, but she will slip into Nymeria’s skin, bright eyes shining more grey than gold, and she will look into Ghost’s own eyes, see the way his are more grey than red himself, and then she will know. She will never touch Jon, but her wolf will spend its life with his, and this will have to be enough. 


End file.
